Strangers
by Reevee21
Summary: A documentation of the hidden kind called "strangers", namely what they do inside those beasts's roosts - courtesy of one brave girl and a night spent masquerading. (Possible sequel in the near future)


_**INCREDIBLY SUBTLE DISCLAIMER: **_**I don't own Dragon Cave in any way, shape, or form, save for an account and a love for it. **

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**Strangers**

**A Dragon Cave fanfiction**

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They were strangers. Strange for many things, some of which being their mysterious origins, committed hobby, and way of living. Strange to the world, their normal attire consisting of hoods and cloaks that shield from pestering gazes.

In fact, the wide term for these hidden vigilantes was strangers, since there wasn't any other thing to call them. Some thought they were spirits, or perhaps demons not allowed in the spirit realm. Others thought they were assassins, or part of the town's invisible guard. Maybe merchants, or collectors, or warriors, or adventurers, or travelers, or soldiers, or exiles.

Another odd thing about them was how they rarely made contact with each other, which was strange for a defined kind with so many similar traits. This reason could have been for many things; For one, there was only a handful who ever visited the same town, and even then on separate dates. They were as widespread as the dragons, and lived anywhere there was a shelter; mountains, vales, lakes, rivers, beaches, forests, swamps, alpines, prairies, deserts, canyons, ravines, cliffs, peaks, caverns.

For this reason, it was presumed they never made contact besides the miracle when they visited the same town on the same day. But this couldn't be the only event where they met; some were witnessed sneaking into wild dragons' roosts. There weren't all that many roosts, but oh-so-many of the strangers. Surely they met there at some point? No one had ever gotten close enough to tell.

That last sentence there was the main reason they were strangers in the first place: no matter how fast one ran or rode, they would never be able to catch up with them before they vanished. No one had ever gotten near enough to their sanctuaries to tell what exactly they did for a living, even the best hunters had trouble finding where their humble abodes might be. Any who tried or came the least bit close was rarely heard of again, probably because they were too busy being buried in a dragon's dung pile.

It was wrong to put up a wanted ad seeking to find a stranger, since apparently they were humans, too: keen eyes claimed to see plain—not reptilian-scaled, or oddly-colored— hands accept the merchandise they had paid for. Speaking of the like, there were those secluded investors who were visited by these strange customers, always paid full price for their merchandise instead of needing to be bargained with like other browsers.

Said merchandise usually consisted of manna, odd foods, and magical items, but even the high prices couldn't steer away the strangers. Though, the payment was occasionally strange; scales with magic properties, coins from out of country, or the occasional jewel.

Where they got such feature-hiding outfits in the first place was a mystery, if they never visited the local seamstresses or even fabric-selling stores. The cloaks themselves were numerous and unique, so it was estimated that they made them with their own, ordinary hands. Most from the warmer locations had thinner fabrics, those in the mountains had fluff around the rims, and a few from the more brutal areas had dragon scales woven near their cuffs for protection.

Actually, more creative minds could spot that they used dragon scales in much of their outfit: not only for foot protection, but also for jewelry and patterning and on the mask sported by one or two. This was a cold thought, thinking how they also visited dragon's roosts...their hobby was mostly the same, whatever it might be, and that's what mainly classified a stranger.

While a few villagers were guilty of stealing pygmies or other small species for housework or pets, the strangers were the only ones who bore and traded the scales, claws, and fur of larger ones—Brutes, Ridgebacks, White, Water, Magi, Ember, Royal Blue, Olive, Black, Vampire, Neotropical, Gold. You name it, the scale has been traded or embroidered in a cloak. Of course, their scales could have been gained through other, natural methods; dragons shed scales when they were broken and when maturing, so it could be that they were protecting or even raising dragons.

But no one would have such the skill, would they? Never had a person been able to withhold a real dragon for too long. They would escape at some point, the oldest dragon kept on record being an adolescent before it broke out.

But the strangers might. They had tricks up their elongated sleeves, and it was known that nary a raging dragon could resist a stranger's calm words or taming tactics. Some villager's dragon attack stories involved a plot twist of a Stranger appearing as if from nowhere and commanding the dragon like a mother to a misbehaving child.

Perhaps that was exactly what it was? Who were these dragon whisperers? Spirits of long-dead dragons, speaking to their kin? Incarnations of some sort to the beasts, forbidden hybrids or mutants? Incredibly skilled humans with just the right tactics?

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That was what she was after.

Currently she was leaning against the mountain's side, next to a cave littered with bones, scales, and eggshells. This cavern was a confirmed dragon roost, as many species had been seen flying in and out of it. It was pretty low-set for a roost, only a couple dozen feet above the ground, while others were one with the clouds or at least twice as high as the tree line. No one had ever been inside…except the Strangers.

She looked like a Stranger herself, outfitted in a cloak and long-sleeved clothes. She couldn't dig up enough scales from the neighbor's Pygmy to weave into her clothes, if she even knew how. Most strangers had strands of thick threading holding the scale edges, keeping them in place like armor; she could only manage a bit of shed skin around her sleeves.

When her family spotted her handicraft, they thought she was going to join them. She quickly dismissed this, saying it was only to find out who the strangers were once and for all—and promised she would be back when she had learned.

She hoped that the town stranger would show up here, one who wasn't very aware of his/her surroundings at all and was very easy to follow. But he would always catch on to your presence when he/she had done his errands, and was quick to lose you before disappearing off to…wherever they went. Here? Another cave? Who knows…?

The afternoon sun soaked her outfit in heat, making her sweat even more than she already had been under the heavy clothes. The stranger of her town was from the valleys, and wore a mixture of light and heavy linens. She wasn't sure where the closest dragon roost was, so this guise was crafted with the intention of hunting deep in the mountains for one. And rumors told it was even warmer inside the dens…

A Stranger approached from the path opposite hers, one most likely hailing from the mountains; her thick cloak rimmed in crème fur and dotted with water droplets. There _had_ been a brief shower earlier, but that was hours ago—she wasn't a nearby stranger.

She stiffened, leaning against the wall opposite of the Stranger, and she could hear heavy breaths from under the stranger's hood. They must have been running from something earlier.

Moments of somewhat awkward silence passed until a hand, ridden with scratches and rather dry, made an "after you" gesture to the roost entrance.

The masquerader gave a note of surprise and ducked in, followed by the stranger.

Dragon roosts were full of large dragons scattered about, some with hatchlings, sleeping on piles of gold. These dragons were normally common species of the region, but there was the occasional oddball from a different place—if she squinted, she could pick out one of the Vampire dragons from the legends. The treasure was equally placed in terms of origin, gold chalices from raided churches or coins stolen from banks. The handle of a large sword or chain of a broken leash stuck out here and there, trophies for each dragon's past.

The dragons themselves were all snoring, but not in an irritating way; their breath came in levelly, sometimes tinted with embers, and filled the cavern with a warm, comfortable feeling. It made one drowsy, like when tea was being boiled—indeed, there were Black Tea dragons there as well.

The girl's lulling mood was interrupted by hushed yet excited voices and the clinking of metals. She looked over to a pile of treasure close by, one with hardly enough gold to cover herself with. Several strangers were gathered around it, whispering to each other and running through the hoard. She inched silently to them to listen in:

"Was the owner murdered? That is the only way to kill a dragon," one asked, outfitted in a black, leather cloak.

"Most likely…feel," a second ordered, handing the first speaker a coin glazed with a green liquid.

The first complied, tapping a fingertip to the surface, but recoiled nearly instantly and held the finger that made contact.

"Acid," the second explained, tucking it into their dark brown robe, "from an Olive dragon. Found it at the top."

"Hmm…I have an Olive, pretty rowdy," the first hummed.

"Owner probably got into a scuffle, then," a third added, whom was setting aside piles of the riches. "Return the jewels and what-not, but split the coins. Hatchlings _love_ these."

The masquerader blinked underneath her hood in surprise. From that conversation alone, she could tell that the strangers _were _dragon raisers. They were also good at sleuthing, and justified in ways of returning objects…

The fourth at the pile, the one she had first met at the entrance, froze. S/he gently pried away a few coins to uncover a small, dark green, scaly tail. "A hatchling," he/she noted in a feminine voice.

"How old?" the third asked.

"…just a few hours," the forth answered after pulling the rest of the sleeping dragon out. She flicked away a bit of eggshell still on the dragon before digging through her cloak with a free hand, pulling out a large messenger's bag. She tucked the hatchling into it along with a handful of gold, slipping away from the group in a subtle manner.

The masquerader was about to go after her when…

"Hey, you."

She looked up, overtaken by the panic that she had been spotted, spotting that one of the strangers was gesturing for her to come over. She stepped to them timidly, the signaler handing her a provision of the gold.

"You're new, aren't you?" they asked.

"Err, yes," she stammered, fumbling to put the coins into her bag. She hadn't really planned on using it, but then again, great treasure was rumored to be inside dragon roosts—and now she knew the rumors were right, the slightly acidic gold telling her so.

"Taken over for a friend? Your outfit suggests it." The voice coming from the hood was identifiably male, and young. Then again, most of the strangers spoke and looked to be youths.

"Y-yes, and I don't know exactly what I'm doing…" she fibbed. Well, half-fibbed, anyway.

She could see a smirk on the person's mouth before they turned away and walked over to a large pile near the entrance. In the sunset's light, she could see they were eggs; the person gently removed one looking to be made of stone from it and hid it into his own bag.

He took a few more before leaving the roost, one with a puddle of water and one with white stripes. Actually, she saw that several strangers were stealing away eggs from the pile; curious, she approached to where the Stranger once at the door was looking over her hatchling. Some burst of bravery at being spoken _at_ by a stranger also encouraged her to speak _to_ one herself; they weren't that strange, she realized.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The stranger turned in her direction, folding the flap over her bag again with the hatchling safely inside.

"I was wondering why we're taking dragon eggs…isn't that stealing?" she asked.

"No, not if they're abandoned," the stranger answered.

"Abandoned?"

"If a human's scent rubs off on an egg, the mother won't accept it. Those eggs the dragons could care less about," she explained, standing up.

"I see," she nodded slowly. "So most of…our dragons are castoffs?"

"More or less. I've had inbred dragons, crossbred dragons, even a Vampire dragon. If the roost doesn't like it," her covered shoulders lifted in a shrug, "they abandon them for us to handle. It's why we're called Caretakers."

"Alright, I get it," she smiled.

The Caretaker's next action surprised her, and answered just about all the questions she could offer: tilting her head up just slightly, the stranger locked eyes with her. They were a warm hazel, and literally gave off a slight glow; it illuminated her freckled nose and a few strands of light brown hair. She flashed a small smile with the eye contact before breaking the stare and exited the cave.

It took the masquerader a few moments to overcome the shock of eye contact before she realized the person was leaving, and cautiously peeped around the entrance to see her standing outside. A moment passed before she sent a loud whistle into the night.

A huge shadow leapt off the side of the mountain, apparently having waited for the signal, and walked to her. It let one of its large, tarp-like wings down to let her onboard, and acted normal when the stranger boarded—like it had done this before. Its neon eyes looked up to its cargo before it spread a pair of white-traced wings and took off into the night, gliding over the forestry until she couldn't spot it from the shadows of night.

"Tri-Horned wyvern…" the girl whispered to herself.

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**This is my second attempt at a one-shot, and I think it went pretty well.**

**I've always imagined the users of Dragon Cave to be village exiles or just plain loners, so this is my head cannon at that opposite world where dragons exist and need clicks and views to survive. Yep…what a life.**

**And it built up from there, and I especially went crazy when I heard you could make a cloth from Pillow Dragon fur. I mean, what could be cooler than a not only fluffy, but DRAGON-ORIGINATING pelt?! Then you've got shed scales, I guess…I tried.**

**Let me know if I should make another, kind of a "day in the life of a dragon tender" sort of thing with this unnamed girl involved—and maybe what her name might be! And thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this! See you all later for now!**


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